Warnings: This will include dark elements. Please do not read if these elements or any dark elements make you uncomfortable.
Character: Arthur Shelby, (short)maid!reader
Summary: you’re employer proves to be the most difficult mess to tend to.
Please reblog if you enjoy and leave some feedback! Muah 💋
You wake at the sudden bang of the front door. It isn't the first time you've been disturbed by the very noise. You're so used to the cacophony of your employer's existence that your heart no longer piques.
You lay and listen to his footsteps. Then it comes. You could almost predict it down to the moment. Another thump, duller than before.
You wait. You hear low droning but not any movement. So be it, your duty resumes.
You sit up and quickly throw on your dress over your shift. You button it in the dark and tuck your feet into your shoes. You go out to find your employer in little better state than when he left.
He's sprawled on the floor, an arm slung over his face. You approach and stand over him. If only you had the luxury to be in tatters.
“Sir, you're on the floor.” You say. Again, you don't say.
He sniffs and groans. “I am." He sounds rather accepting of his plight.
“Mr. Shelby,” you put your hands on your hips. “You’ve a bed upstairs.”
“I do.”
You silence a sigh and let your breath out slowly through your nose. “Do you not think it would be better to rest there than on the floor?”
“Where?” He asks sulkily.
“In your bed.” You say. “Sir.”
“I don’t need my bed. I need whiskey,” he pouts and flings his arm away from his face. “Please, bobbin, just a little taste–”
“We don’t have any whiskey.”
His eyes narrow and he jerks. He sits up, his brows arching. “What’d ya mean no whiskey? I’ve got casks in the cellar. My whiskey. Shelby Brothers’--”
“There are oats and flour down there, sir. No whiskey–”
“What’ve you done?” He accuses and reaches to latch onto your wrist.
“Mr. Shelby, you needn’t be rough,” you tug against his grip. “I did nothing with your whiskey. Your brother’s men came in and cleared it out.”
“My broth– Tommy?” He frowns.
“Well, he did find you in much a state. As you are now.”
“Well, I’ve not had any whiskey, eh?” He snarls. “That is my illness. I am dry as bones.”
You twist your arm as you try to free yourself. “Mr. Shelby–”
“Bobbin,” he uses you to leverage himself to his feet, nearly pulling you down onto him. He staggers and holds his head low, shoulders slumped as his face lines. “You work for me.” He lets you go and taps his chest. “Me. Not Tommy.”
“I understand, Mr. Shelby. But…”
“I am his brother. We are equal,” he insists. “I pay you, not him.”
You look up at him as he looms. “You pay me to mind your mess. I’ve done so. The whiskey caused a mess.”
He scoffs. “You…” he wags his finger at you. He blinks and winces, then points up the stairs. “Bed, certainly. My head threatens to crack.”
“I could bring you tea or coffee?”
“Whiskeyyyyy,” he growls as he lumbers toward the stairs.
You sigh. “Good night, Mr. Shelby. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Morning,” he rasps as he latches onto the banister and wavers on the first step. “Fook the mornin’.”
You linger and watch him climb unsteadily. It would serve him to fall but you suspect a Shelby with dented head would be a bigger problem than one with too much drink. He drags his feet down the hall and out of sight.
You shut off the lights and return to your room. You remove your dress and hang it over the wooden chair at the small desk against the wall. You lie down in your slip, under the linen and wool, and close your eyes.
You’re not so certain drying out Arthur Shelby will be a better task than tending to his indulgence.
🍷
“Bobbin,” the hiss scratches in your ears as you’re shaken by your shoulder. “Bobbin, where’s the whiskey? It’s not funny no more.”
You open your eyes and stare at Mr. Shelby as you lay on your back. The door is open behind him, letting in the light of the hall. He’s in his long underwear and undershirt.
“Mr. Shelby, what–”
“Please, I’m begging,” he tugs the blankets down to expose the top of your shift. “You saved something, didn’t ya?”
“I told you, it’s all gone,” you sit up and reach for the blanket. He clasps onto it and holds it on your lap. “Sir, you should go back to bed.”
“My head is splitting,” he whines.
“You should have some milk. Or water–”
“Don’t you understand?!” He exclaims and clutches his head, bowing down as he groans. “I feel my brains leaking out of my ears.” He snarls. “I hear them.”
“Hear… sir?”
“The fookin’ shells!” He barks and bends over his lap, crossing his arms over his head. “Shut up! Shut up!”
You stare at him, dumbfounded. You’ve heard of what war does to men. You’ve seen Mr. Shelby act out with a glass in hand all the same, but never alone. Never in such tight quarters.
You push the blankets off you and slip your legs over the edge of the bed. You stand.
“Let me get you back to bed, then. I’ll see what I can do.”
No whiskey but perhaps some Luminal. As you say his name again, he lifts his head. He looks up under heavy lashes.
“My head…” he utters as he stares up at you. He tilts his head and his gaze slips. His left brow lifts. “Mmm.” He reaches for you. Before you can react, he grabs your hips. He squeezes and pulls you close. “Bobbin…” he turns his head and presses it to your stomach. “You’re soft…”
You teeter on your feet, off-balance at the easy force of his embrace. “You shouldn’t–” You wriggle and push on his shoulders as he traps you in his arms. He leans his head into you, your breasts almost resting against him.
“I didn’t know you were so soft,” he mutters.
“Mr. Shelby, this isn’t–”
He growls and drags one hand up your back. You push on him harder and try to lean away. You only manage to heave your chest over his head. He snickers.
“Why’n’t ya lay down with me?” He leans back and takes you off your feet.
You wrestle with him as he angles around with you, stretches across the bed as you writhe. He rolls over with you still trapped in his arms and crushes you against the wall. You cry out and push on his chest.
“Get off. Now.”
“You’re a lady.” He lifts his chin and rests it against your hair. “I forgot you were a lady.”
“You need to get off–”
“Pull up your slip and I will,” he chuckles.
“Sir!” You snip.
“Keep on and I just might,” he warns. “I’m doin’ ‘xactly as you said. I’m gonna sleep and you can make good sure of that, eh?”
Gravity went out on La Sirena. :| Idea is not my own, but was too amusing for me to resist a doodle. The idea is to be blamed on the brilliant minds of Aramis in Space people <3
